The Eye of the Hunter by Frank Bonham Read Free Book Online Page A

letting Frances sprawl on the ground. As she crawled away, he lay doubled up on the ground, gasping and moaning.
    She looked around, sobbing in desperation. Even if she could reach her horse, the cinch was loosened and the saddle would turn under her; and, anyway, Rip’s big Morgan could easily outrun the mare. She looked for the carbine, but he had slung it into the brush. She heard him swearing as he got to his feet. As he reached for her, she screamed, and the pure, instinctive, nerve-racking female sound startled him, giving her an instant to run for the cabin.
    The small room was feebly illuminated by a candle in a cranberry votive glass before a santo on a table. The door was made from hewn poles. With all her strength she banged it closed and swung the bar into the wooden keeper. An instant later Rip crashed against it.
    â€œOpen the goddamn door!” he bawled. “I’m going to teach you that when I say frog, you better jump next time! I’m going to whip your backside raw, woman!”
    He attacked the door with his fists, his shoulder, a rock; then, grunting curses, he tramped away. Oh, my God , Frances , she thought, he will murder you after he rapes you . She knelt before the shrine. Although she was a badly failed Catholic, she prayed. Then, opening her eyes as she heard Rip outside the door again, she saw something hanging behind the bed on which she was about to be sacrificed, like an Aztec maiden. She whispered,
    â€œDios Mio, te doy gracias! Gracias, Señor!”
    She seized the holstered gun hanging from a nail and pulled out Rip’s ornately engraved Colt. It was obviously loaded, since she could scarcely raise it to point it. Breathing like a frightened horse, she sat on the bed and waited, occupying herself in pulling the hammer back. As the thing went on full cock, it made a harsh sound like the snapping of an iguana’s jaws.
    Rip’s boots came tramping back, the dog barking as it ran alongside him. “This ain’t even legal!” he shouted. “What about my husbandly rights? Open this door or I’ll chop my way in!”
    â€œLeave me alone, Rip! I warn you!”
    An ax or sledge struck the door. Dust flew. Another blow opened a wide crack from top to bottom. Frances sat on the bed and raised the revolver with both hands. She took a wavering aim at a knot high in the door, too high to hit him but close enough to scare him. She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.
    The world exploded with a blinding flash and a roar. A wind struck her face. After the orange flash faded, she could see nothing whatsoever. Absolutely deaf and blind, shocked by the colossal explosion, she sat on the bed wondering whether she had blinded herself. At last she realized the concussion must have blown the candle out.
    She sat there waiting. She heard nothing from outside but recognized that she probably could not have heard a cannon shot. What was Rip doing out there in the darkness?
    She lay back on the bed to wait for what should come next, which might be her own death. Then, so relieved that she began to cry, she heard Rip playing the banjo and singing. With the relief came exhaustion; she let herself fall back on the cot, to lie with ringing ears in a sort of coma. She dreamed that Rip came to the door and said, “This is a plate of food, Panchita. I’ll be over at the fire. If you need anything, just call. I won’t fuss with you anymore. I’m truly sorry.”
    But it was not a dream, she fathomed at last. What kind of creature is this, she thought, who says and does cruel things when he’s sober, and kind things when he’s drunk?
    When she heard him picking and singing again, yawning and getting sleepier by the minute, she sneaked the plate of food into the cabin. It was cold and greasy, of course, but eased out some of her tension and raised her spirits. After eating, she lay down again. She dared not unbar the door, which seemed to make her a